


the road back home

by AppleJuiz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Pet Names, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7681090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The thing is Steve always knew it would happen eventually.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>From the moment he stepped out of that pod, feeling ten feet tall and a hundred pounds lighter and heavier at the same time, he knew it would only be temporary. He's not sure what made him feel that way, just a nagging that there was no real escaping the sickness and the aches, just temporary reliefs and this was one of them.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He's not sure how he expected it to happen. Maybe the serum just failing, maybe it starts with a case of pneumonia he can't shake, maybe something worse. But he doesn't expect this.</em>
</p>
<p>Hydra sends the Winter Soldier to kill Steve Rogers after he is de-serumed.  It doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of finishing any of the other million things I've started writing, I got the idea for this piece and managed to churn something out. Not sure really where it came from or where it's going, but either way I hope you enjoy reading it. Hopefully, I'll update it soon.

Steve wakes up to a cold hand on his forehead, sweeping his hair back.

His hands are always cold, both of them, no matter the outside temperature, but they’re also always gentle, tender, intimate, sending shivers down Steve's spine.

“Котенок,” Bucky breathes, and his low voice rumbles through Steve’s chest. “Wake up. It's time to go.”

He groans, eyelids fluttering open slowly, hand fumbling out to latch around Bucky’s wrist,his strong steady pulse beneath Steve's fingers to ground him. His head is already pounding, everything is a muted blur, and half the bones in his body ache.

His pair of thick framed glasses are placed on the bridge of his nose, and he takes in the hotel room with a slight shock. He'd forgotten what it looked like, had expected to wake up in the last hotel they were at, the one they stayed in a full week. They had been here… two nights.

Right. Five miles off the highway, three states away from that last hotel and it's very close call.

Gentle hands are tucking his hearing aid into his bad ear, cupping the back of his head, and pulling him up. He stares at Bucky, stifling a yawn, blinking slowly, and marveling like he does everyday at the sight before him.

There's a slight quirk in his mouth, the barest traces of a smile, the faint echoes of a smirk he hasn't seen since Brooklyn all those years ago. Steve revels in it, squeezing Bucky's wrist, leaning forward slightly.

“Morning,” Bucky says, quietly, brushing Steve's bangs back again.

“Mornin’” Steve agrees, voice rough and scratchy. He stifles a yawn behind his hand and glances around the room. Their bags are packed, every surface in the kitchen looking like Bucky had spent all night scrubbing them clean.

“Do you need to shower?” Bucky asks, face turning serious.

“Probably,” Steve admits, rubbing his hand down his face. “Gosh, I haven't taken one since Ohio.”

Bucky nods solemnly and slides off the bed, graceful as every. “We should check out in a half hour. Let me know if you need anything.”

Steve rubs at his eyes and swings his legs off the king size bed. Bucky makes a pleased sound and kisses the top of his head before sliding to his feet. Steve follows, reaching out to steady himself against Bucky's arm. He's pretty much completely adjusted to being small again, constantly feeling sick and weak and dizzy, and while he's certainly not happy about it, he's learned to accept help from Bucky whenever he needs… usually. It's worth it for the joyful look in Bucky's eyes alone.

Once he gets his bearings, he grabs his clothes from the bedside table and shuffles to the bathroom. As soon as he closes the door, he hears Bucky start moving, doing whatever he thinks they need to do to ensure no one knows they were here.

It's been three days over a month and Steve still has no idea who they're running from.

***

The thing is Steve always knew it would happen eventually.

From the moment he stepped out of that pod, feeling ten feet tall and a hundred pounds lighter and heavier at the same time, he knew it would only be temporary. He's not sure what made him feel that way, just a nagging that there was no real escaping the sickness and the aches, just temporary reliefs and this was one of them.

“Is it permanent?” Bucky had asked, once upon a time, voice hoarse, hands gripping into Steve's uniform.

And Steve had said, “So far,” because that's the only thing that felt true.

All throughout the war and even when he wakes up in the twenty first century, he feels like he's living on borrowed time. It won't be long until it slips away, until his body stops pretending to be something it's not and he goes back to being a small sickly runt.

He hears about advances in medicine for asthma and scoliosis and thinks _Okay, good._ And then he catches himself and tries to forget about the grim future he's planning for.

He's not sure how he expected it to happen. Maybe the serum just failing, maybe it starts with a case of pneumonia he can't shake, maybe something worse. But he doesn't expect this.

“Wait, did you say Hydra?” Clint asks, voice a little too loud, fiddling with his hearing aids. “Thought those guys were ancient history.”

“So did I,” Steve grumbles. _So fucking did I._ Because of course the one thing that managed to make it to the future with him was this.

“We're not sure what they are,” Hill says delicately, glancing over at Steve. “They're ex-Shield agents, very disgruntled, claiming to follow the rightful successor of Johann Schmitt, and pledging their lives to his cause.”

Steve huffs sharply. Yep, that sounds about right.

“So who's the nutjob claiming to be Schmitt Jr.?” Steve asks.

“We actually don't know,” Natasha says. “Their leader hasn't spoken up yet. It's just this group of twenty claiming the usual bullshit that their revolution is nigh.”

“Lovely,” Steve sighs.

“Alright, let’s go find these guys,” Clint announces, clapping his hands together.

“We don't need to find them, Barton,” Natasha corrects, sighing in exasperation. “They're trying to blow up DC. That's what we opened with. Pay attention.” She tucks a pistol into belt, probably one of many more than he can't even see, and turns, marching confidently out the door.

Clint rolls his eyes, shrugging at Steve like they're in on an inside joke, and follows her out. This is one of the only good things about this century.

They take the quintet down to DC and it's a quiet ride: Natasha flying, Steve reading through the mission file, Clint playing a game of darts. But that calm is quickly disturbed when they land. Because Steve was expecting a bunch of angry, violent dudes in tac vests, shouting nonsense about order and chaos, brandishing guns, terrifying innocent civilians.

Steve wasn't expecting ten foot tall hulking masses packing giant guns glowing blue in a way that catapults him back to the war and the train and _Bucky_ and makes his chest ache.

“Psst,” Clint says, tapping Steve's shoulder. “Did I miss this part of the mission briefing?”

“No,” Natasha replies dryly, appearing behind them from across the plane. “That's new.”

Steve swallows hard, pushes his mind away from thoughts of the train and the last times he saw one of those guns. There are people in danger and he has to protect them.

One step at a time. He needs a plan.

“Hawkeye,” he begins. “We need your eyes in the sky. Set up in one of the higher floors in that grey building. Natasha, you take the south side of the street, I'll take the north and work towards the middle. Orders were to detain for questioning, but that might not be an option anymore. Do what you have to do to protect civilians and stay safe.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Clint says, throwing his hand up in a salute before running off to get in position.

“You good with the plan?” Steve asks, turning to Natasha, who's methodically reloading gun after gun and tucking them back into the folds of her suit.

“Yeah, sure, sounds great,” she agrees half-heartedly. “Did you know Carol from R&D broke up with her boyfriend last week?”

“Natasha, can we please gossip after we save the capital?” Steve begs, because he has a pretty good idea what turn this conversation will-

“You should ask her out,” she announces, like it's some brilliant revelation she just came to.

“Tell you what, we save the city, and I'll think about it,” he says, strapping his shield on his back and striding to the exit of the plane.

“Hmmm, why do I feel like you’re lying?” Natasha muses, as they hop out of the jet and start jogging along the street towards the action.

“Probably because I'll be thinking about how to say no firm enough that you decide to stop playing matchmaker.”

“First of all, you're Captain America, you're not allowed to lie. It's against the Constitution. And secondly, matchmaking is one of my superpowers. Without it, I'm like the rest of you mortals, I have nothing.”

“Right. Nothing, just terrifying espionage skills and general badassery.”

“Exactly,” Natasha agrees. “So maybe you should try with Carol, and stop questioning-”

There's a loud crash, like a cannon being fired inches away from Steve's ear, and with a flash of bright red light, he goes skidding down the pavement. A searing pain explodes in his right side and quickly zaps through his entire body.

Natasha shouts after him in genuine concern, and suddenly his whole body is aching and writhing, eyes rolling back in his head, muscles seizing up. He shudders and coughs, and then the pain dissipates as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him shaky and sore on the ground.

When he opens his eyes again, the sky above him is a murky grey. His breaths come in short and shallow. His heart beating is skipping along, offbeat and sluggish. His back aches down to his spine.

He doesn't have to look down at himself to know what has happened.

Natasha is shouting something from his right, his bad side, so he can't hear her. He can turn his head to the right, and can make out a blur that must be her, grappling with the nearest agent. Her mouth is moving, shouting at him to…get up or something else that looks like it.

He slowly scrambles to get his elbows underneath him, and pushes up to a seated position slowly.

Not even five feet away from him is a man, tall, built, in all black, hair long and stringy, covering his eyes, a black muzzle around his mouth that makes something settle wrong in Steve’s stomach. The man has a gun in his hand, is pointing it at Steve's head, feet apart, arms locked, experienced posture. His eyes are wild, an icy blue that seems to be calling out to Steve, frightened like the gun is being held to his head instead.

The man clicks off the safety. Steve always knew he would die in this body.

He can't get up in time, he's tangled in the suit and the tights. His shield is too far away, especially like this. And even if he could get up, he couldn't run, he couldn't fight. He may have had a chance against this guy before, but in this body… Hell, he's lucky to be getting shot. At least it’ll be over fast.

But the guy doesn't shoot, just stares, wide eyed, body tense, taught as a bowstring. The gun is aimed, steady at his head, a clean shot, anyone could make the shot from this distance, but instead the man just stands there, frozen, panicky in his eyes but calm confidence in the rest of his body.

Steve stares him down, daring him to do it, take the shot. He's used to this, to people feeling bad, to people not going hard on him when he's like this because he seems so fragile. He's not sure what's going through this guy's head, why he isn't shooting, but that has to be it.

He's little now and the guy feels guilty. Steve glares at him, opens his mouth to spit out something vicious and antagonizing.

Natasha's gonna verbally castrate him in her eulogy.

Before he can get past glaring, the man drops the gun. He looks stunned with himself, but only in his eyes. The rest of his body moves with surety as he marched towards Steve and away from the gun. He lifts Steve by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet, and adjusting the suit so it drapes over him comfortably.

He nods to himself, pushing Steve away from the action on the street and towards an alley nearby. Steve kicks out, swinging his legs and fists, but it's useless as the man just steps back calmly and then pushes Steve forward again, gently.

Once he's in the alley, the man shoves the shield into Steve's arms, gives him a stern look and says “Stay,” in a hoarse voice, muffled by the muzzle and cracking over the one word.

Steve continues to glare, but then suddenly the man is gone, like a poof of smoke, disappearing back into the fray and leaving Steve alone, small, aching, and swaddled in his uniform.

***

They say that it's temporary, but Steve sees through the tight smiles. He knows better. They say they're working on a fix, that once Tony gets back from Sokovia everything’ll go back to normal.

Steve just nods, returns their forced grins, brushes off Natasha’s fussing.

(“What happened?” Natasha asks, pulling him aside after visiting the doctors. “Why are you not dead?”

“You know people have been asking me that for years and I still don't have a good answer,” Steve responds, scowling.

“That was the Winter Soldier. He does not miss his mark. Ever. You shouldn't be alive.” Then she frowns, and hugs him tightly, like she's not afraid he will break.

“Who is he?” Steve asks.

“He's a ghost.”)

He has a bag of medicine, pills and vitamins and inhalers and a million other things he didn't have back in Brooklyn. He sets it all down on his nightstand, staring almost marvel.

“God, Buck, look how far we’ve come,” he whispers, allowing himself a moment to get choked up before pulling himself together again. He doesn't think he’ll ever be done grieving Bucky, but it's times like these where the pain stabs through him, cold and unforgiving.

He decides to sort through his medicine in the morning, when he's less morose.

In all the times he'd pictured being small again, it never really sunk in that Bucky wouldn't be there. For most things in this new world, it doesn't really sink in that Bucky is gone.

He keeps his shower short, because spending too long under the hot water starts to turn cold and… He finishes quickly. All of his pajamas are too big now, without a chance in the world of his pants actually staying up and not being a tripping hazard, so he settles for the smallest t shirt he owns, which hangs down to the tops of his knees.

He feels slightly ridiculous (and slightly nostalgic for the days he used to wear Bucky's larger undershirts around at night, but he's not thinking about Bucky anymore tonight). He spends maybe too long staring in the mirror, tracing his face with his fingers, taking in the old sharp angles he'd almost forgotten. They said a few days, but Steve knows deep in his bones that this is it.

He exits the bathroom, bundling the clothes Natasha had lent him (that was a sad moment for his pride) in his arms only to drop them the second he entered his bedroom. See he's used to having super hearing, nothing too fancy, but enough to tell when people approach him, or are in the next room over, or break into his apartment through the thirty first story window. So he's not prepared to suddenly not be able to tell that the man from DC is in his room.

He's even less prepared to see the muzzle on the floor and Bucky's face staring back at him.

“Buck,” he breathes, and there's a good chance he's on the floor of the bathroom having tripped while climbing out of the tub and he's now hallucinating and/or dying. Bucky looks up from where he has Steve's medications spread out across the nightstand and stares at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“I know you,” he says, voice hoarse.

It's Bucky. It's Bucky's voice, deep and rough from misuse on a long mission in London. It's Bucky's eyes, icy cold, like he's staring down the Murphy twins, but gentle, confused, looking at Steve like he's a mystery Bucky’s trying to solve. It's Bucky's hair, longer than he's ever seen, wild and unkempt, stringy and hanging down into his face. “I know you, Любимая моя.”

“Bucky,” Steve staggers forward, half expecting a fall that never comes. “What happened? What happened to you?”

Steve doesn't know how to begin processing this. God, he's still caught up in Bucky being here that he can't even start to pick apart everything else: the Russian, the metal arm, the same suit the man in DC was wearing, the duffle bag Bucky has plopped down on Steve's bed, the red splotches on his suit that probably aren't red paint.

“We need to leave,” Bucky says, standing and walking over to Steve, eyes tender, taking over him like an x-Ray, cutting him down to his soul. “They will try to hurt you, Котенок. They are looking for me already. We need to hide.”

“Buck, what are you-?” Steve protests.  He’s trembling in place, just for being this close to Bucky again after so long.

“We need to run. Shield is corrupted. They will not protect you,” Bucky says in halting sentences, eyes begging. “I can protect you. I will protect you… If you let me.”

There's too much to process. Steve needs time because there's too much to process. Bucky, Shield, the Winter Soldier. There are too many things flying through Steve's head-

“Of course,” Steve says, tentatively reaching out and placing his hand on Bucky's arm. “You can protect me, just please tell me what happened.”

He can never say no to Bucky.

“Questions later,” Bucky says, frowning softly. He steps away from Steve, walking back to his duffle back and rooting through it. Steve approaches him careful, curious, not wanting to be too far away from Bucky in case he disappears. “Here, Любимая.” Bucky gently presses a shirt and pants into Steve's hands, petite sizes with the tags still on. “I will pack your things. Tell me what else you need.”

Steve’s not known for being the listening type, but he’ll be damned if he won't follow Bucky to the ends of the earth.

“Nothing, I have everything I need,” Steve responds, hoping he doesn't seem like too much of a sap. Bucky nods and sets about tucking each of Steve's pill bottles and other medicines reverentially into the pockets of the duffle bag.

He gets changed right there in the bedroom, modesty be damned (not that he had any with Bucky to begin with), half afraid if he leaves the room, Bucky will disappear.

***

“What happened to you?” Steve asks, once they're in the pickup truck Bucky must have stolen.

“I don't know,” Bucky replies, not sparing Steve a glance as he glares out the front windshield. Steve reaches out tentatively for Bucky's shoulder, the flesh and blood one, expecting a flinch but receiving a small wince before Bucky settles beneath Steve's hand.

Touch makes it all feel more solid, less of a demented dream, more of reality.

“How are you alive?”

“I don't know.” Bucky seems just as confused as Steve is. Just as broken too.

“Why were you in DC?”

“To kill you.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I am the Asset.”

Steve remarkably doesn’t throw up, even with his new, old weak stomach.

“Do you know who I am?”

Bucky nods, looking over at Steve, an intensity in his eyes that takes Steve's breath away. “Ангел мой, Солнышко моё.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, trying not to sound as breathless as he feels.

Bucky just smiles, joyful and unrestrained, and turns back to the road.

“It means I'm going to keep you safe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for all the support for this story so far. Again, I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, so I'm trying around with some different styles. As always let me know what you think and seriously any suggestions or things you want to see in this story in the future.

They hand him a gun. They tell him the man in the file will be smaller, weaker, and he is to end it. 

It will be no challenge. There will be no fight. 

It seems like a waste of his skills, a mission he can do with his eyes closed, and that any other agent can complete without fail. He doesn't question it though. He doesn't even contemplate asking, because he does what he is told and does not question, does not doubt. 

The face in the file he's given is broad and all sturdy planes, defined edges.  It itches something, but he doesn't know what. They say he will look like this only smaller. 

Only that's a lie. 

The man looks different when he's smaller, bird bones and hair like gold. His face is sharp angles with a softness, his eyes are bigger, hair longer, flopping over his forehead.  

They gave him the gun, but he can't shoot it. Not at this man. 

Something is going on. 

The picture before itched something, but seeing the man like this does something else entirely. In his head there are more pictures. The man's beautiful small body, skin smooth and warm beneath his fingertips, freckles dotting the man’s back that he explores with his mouth, the sunlight in the morning as it bounces off the golden strands of his hair, the sound of soft wheezing on cold winter nights. 

The man glares at him and the gun falls from his hand. 

They lied. He's smaller, yes, but not weaker, never weaker. No, there's a fire in his eyes, a blaze that means balled fists, bruised knuckles, split lips. The man is not weak, he's the furthest from it. 

But he needs to be protected. 

_ By you _ , a voice in his head says.  _ Protect, protect, protect.  _

***

“Who is he?” he asks, suspicious, even though he shouldn't be, he should know his place. But something’s wrong. They lied about his target. 

“Why is he not dead?” His handler asks, face tight in a way that means danger, pain, failure. But that is not a priority.

“Conflict in mission parameters,” he explains. Because they had given him a gun and said to shoot, but… A woman, tall, thin, pale, blonde, had stared down out him over a bed with the man, small and coughing and said, “Look out for him, Bucky. Protect him when I can't.”

“What parameters?” his handler grits. 

“Who is he?” he repeats. He remembers… His mouth shaping unfamiliar words, soft words that roll off his tongue:  _ darling, sweetheart, baby, doll, honey, kitten _ , and _ mine, mine, mine _ . He can see the man’s face, rolling his eyes, pursing his lips, the red in his cheeks, the way he ducks his eyes away, pushes at his arm, bashful. 

He remembers whispering endless devotion into the shell of his ear, his good ear,  _ Love you _ and  _ You’re beautiful  _ and  _ End of the line _ . Things that have no meaning to him, that make no sense, hold no permanence. Words that he doesn't even try to say again, because he knows it won't come out right. Just the feeling of warmth, safety, the antithesis of everything he knows now. 

“Я тебя люблю,” he whispers to himself, testing it out. He doesn't remember learning the words, doesn't know why he would know them. But they sound the same as in his memories, fills him with a light airy feeling. 

He's too relaxed, doesn't even notice the blow coming until there's stinging pain in his cheek. 

“Pay attention,” his handler snaps. “You will not receive another chance. Correct this mistake and I’ll forgive this one transgression.”

“Who is he?” he snarls, all fuzzy warmth from before gone. 

“He is your target,” his handler says, lying again. The man is not a target. The man is the opposite of a target. “Finish your mission.”  He is given a gun, enough rounds for everyone in the room. 

He will finish his mission. 

***

His Любимая is perfect, he discovers quickly. He curls up in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to his chest. He asks question after question, eyebrows tight and drawn together, staring at him with unwavering intensity. His hand curls around Bucky’s bicep, a comfort that relaxes him. 

He's Bucky now. He didn't remember that before, still doesn't remember the name of his Любимая either. There are traces now, echoes of the other times his Любимая would breathe his name, pant it, stutter over it. 

“Where are we going?” He asks, curious but trusting. 

“Somewhere safe,” Bucky responds, because that is the goal.  _ Protect him.  _ Take him somewhere safe, somewhere warm with wide open air for his lungs. He's not sure where exactly that will be. 

His Любимая rolls his eyes. “Which direction?”

“West,” he responds, on a whim, because that sounded right once.  _ We’ll go west, Buck, see the Grand Canyon, see what all the fuss is about.  _

His Любимая slumps back into his seat, turns his attention to the road ahead of them, the black asphalt on black sky that he probably struggles to distinguish. 

Bucky reaches out and switches on the radio, small soft music floating out of the speakers, quietly, calmly. He glances over at his Любимая, who grins lightly. His eyelids droop, but he valiantly blinks himself awake, digging his fingers into his thigh.

Bucky watches him out of the corner of his eyes, as his head dips up and down, as he starts to drift off and jolts back up again. It makes him smile, something amused and too fond boiling up in his chest. 

“Sleep,” he says softly, glancing over at his beautiful Любимая, silhouetted in the moonlight. He hesitates, fingers tightening around Bucky's arm. “I can keep us safe. You should rest.”

He nods, gnawing on his bottom lip, shaking his left foot. He doesn't look calm enough to sleep and Bucky worries. 

“P-Promise you’ll be here when I wake up?” his Любимая asks, voice wavering. “Promise you won't disappear.”

“I promise,” he replies, solemnly. He doesn't understand how his Любимая could think he would go anywhere, abandon him when he was in danger, leave him ever, but he will do whatever needed to assuage his fears. He reaches out with his right hand to claim his free hand, lace their fingers together. He lets him pull his arm to his chest, curl around it almost protectively. 

It's not the most comfortable angle, but Bucky doesn’t complain, just glances over at him as he closes his eyes, relaxes his shoulders. His breathing evens out, slowing slightly, until the only sounds that remain in the truck are the slight whistling of his breathing and the soft music floating up from the radio. 

***

He finds a hotel miles outside of Philadelphia. It's past midnight. The hotel is fancy, but small, easily overlooked from the street and the highway, a good fifteen minute drive from the city. 

He doesn't want to leave his Любимая unprotected, and he promised to be here when his Любимая woke up. But… He carefully pulls his arm free gently, rubs circles on his shoulders, but he doesn't wake up. 

Bucky quietly closes the car door behind him and manages to walk calmly to the lobby and rent a room without darting back to the car fifteen separate times. When he gets back to the car, his Любимая is safe and still sleeping, face lax and softly snoring. 

Bucky smiles.  

He throws the black duffle bag over his shoulder, adjusting it so it drapes across his back. Carefully, so carefully, he unbuckles his Любимая and scoops him up, cradling him close and as steadily as possible, painstakingly keeping him from jostling as he marches to their room. 

He left the keys in the truck; they'll have to find a new car in the morning. He's been careful so far, but he can't afford to get sloppy either. 

“Treatin’ me like a dame, Buck,” he grumbles, voice gruff, burying his face in Bucky's shoulder. 

“Not a dame,” Bucky assures him, like an echo. He's sure this has happened before, years ago. The memory scratches at him, but he can't reach the details, just the impression of it. “Just the angel you are, Дорогая моя.” It’s light-hearted, like a joke, but also the absolute truth. 

He shoves at Bucky's shoulder, huffs, but makes no further protest. 

“Where are we?” He asks, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Hotel,” Bucky explains. “Pennsylvania. It's safe, probably will be for a day or two.”

He swipes the door open with a key card, carefully maneuvering his Любимая in his arms. The room is more spacious than he was expecting, a large queen bed pressed against the back wall, a television set and a comfy looking couch, a table and a refrigerator. He’ll have to find more hotels like this one, ones that they can live out of for longer periods of time. 

He picked up some maps in the lobby, stole a phone hours before breaking into the tower. He only needs to sleep for approximately four hours per night, so ample time to plan their route west, but he also can't imagine sleeping, leaving them both unprotected for any amount of time. His Любимая will want to take a watch shift, but needs his rest more. He's even yawning again, and Bucky brings him over to the giant bed, tucks him under the covers because he needs to keep warm. 

“‘M not helpless,” he snaps, eyes tight, burning with the usual fire. 

“I know,” Bucky assures him. “You're not. You're the strongest man I know.” He presses his lips to his forehead, and makes sure the pillows are stacked correctly so his airways are open and his back won't ache in the morning. He's not sure how he remembers this, but his hands move instinctively. “Sleep.”

“You should too,” he says. 

“I will,” Bucky replies, even though he probably will not. “I will when I'm tired, but you need to sleep.”

He nods, pursing his lips almost unhappily. “Okay, fine. But it's late. Don't spend too long up.”

Bucky nods and heads over to the table in the kitchen, dropping down the duffle bag and rolling out his shoulders. He feels him staring, eyebrows furrowing in concern, and Bucky smiles to himself. 

He remembers this too: he doesn't just keep his Любимая safe, they protect each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations if you need:   
> Я тебя люблю = I love you  
> Любимая = sweetheart  
> Дорогая моя = dear
> 
> Anyway I hope you liked this chapter, I'll try to update again soon. I did want to try Bucky only referring to Steve by ridiculous pet names, but I'm not sure how it worked out so please let me know if you liked it or not. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, I hope you liked it. Please let me know if you want to read more, and feel free to leave me suggests for where you think this should go since I have no clue.
> 
> Russian translations:
> 
> Котенок= kitten  
> Любимая моя= sweetheart  
> Ангел мой= my angel  
> Солнышко моё= my sun
> 
> Also in the future just assume any Russian words are ridiculously sappy pet names, because I have a Thing for Bucky sweet talking Steve in Russian, and I am also trash.
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://applejuiz.tumblr.com/) and I have a [book](https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/people-like-us/id1076432088?mt=11) out if you wanna read more of my stuff.
> 
> Thanks again!!!


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